


Hope He Is a Gentleman

by dancinbutterfly



Category: Bandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Normal Life, M/M, Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-25
Updated: 2010-11-25
Packaged: 2020-02-15 21:36:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18677812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinbutterfly/pseuds/dancinbutterfly
Summary: “’That’s it?’ Seriously?" Bill demands. “I'm getting you backstage to a Patrick Stump concert. Years of listening to you extol his musical genius and I quote ‘perfectly fuckable mouth’ and this is the thanks I get? Dude, your gratitude. It’s boundless.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another moldy oldy migrating to AO3 :D

  
His cell phone rings and all Pete has to do is glance at his caller ID to know how to answer it. “Whatever it is, no.”

“Aw, come on, Pete,” Bill whines. His daughter’s been giving him lessons, Pete’s sure of it. He never used to be this good. “What happened to you, man? You used to be fun. I remember when you were a yes man. Yes, Bill, I will totally drop acid with you and chase invisible penguins through the park in my swim trunks. Yes, Bill, I will totally sub in for your bassist who is too hung over to make sound check. Yes, Bill-“

“Yes, Bill, I have a business now.” Pete sighs and leans against the counter. It’s been a slow day. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised. It’s almost always a slow day. “So I have to say no to the invisible penguins. They were fucking evil, by the way, and out to get me.”

“You don’t know that.”

That was bullshit. They may not have been real but Pete remembers that night. They had nefarious intent, despite looking like something out of the Hello Kitty collection gone horribly, horribly wrong.

But that was, Jesus, almost ten years ago. He’s got Clandestine now. He can’t fuck off to whatever it is Bill is going to ask him, especially if it’s another scheme that involves leaving Chicago. He doesn’t trust Ryan not to burn the store to the ground. He lives in the building and he’d never get his deposit back. “I do know that. Which is why I’m going to have to say no.”

“I haven’t even asked you yet. At least let me ask. Come on. You may want to say yes.”

Wanting has absolutely nothing to do with it. Pete pretty much always wants to say yes to all of Bill’s crazy shit. He wanted to say yes when Bill asked him to come out as a tech for The Academy Is… three tours ago. But he’d been trying to get the small business loan he needed so he could get the fuck out of the shitty job at the mayor’s office. Then he’d been opening the store and, well, suddenly four years have gone by, he’s a business owner, and Bill’s still Bill-only now he’s actually making money on his music.

That’s probably why Pete sighs again and asks, “What is it?”

“We’re playing in town this week.”

He knew that. No, he did. It’s on his calendar. Ryan wrote it down for him. The guy is spacey as fuck with his own life but he’s pretty good at keeping shit straight for Pete. “On a Thursday night, right?”

“Yep.”

“Yeah, I’m coming to that. It’s the stadium show at the United Center, right? I got tickets. Solidarity and all that shit.”

“I hereby authorize you to scalp them. I’m putting you on the list. I want you to come and hang out.”

“That’s it?”

“’That’s it?’ Seriously?" Bill demands. “I'm getting you backstage to a Patrick Stump concert. Years of listening to you extol his musical genius and I quote ‘perfectly fuckable mouth’ and this is the thanks I get? Dude, your gratitude. It’s boundless.”

Okay, so, yes, Pete is a fan. He doesn’t know anyone who isn’t a fan of Patrick Stump. The guy is more famous than Josh Groban only his music actually rocks. He has a bigger demographic, a harsher baseline, and more punk influence. But Pete is a big believer in the whole _don’t meet your heroes_ idea. Especially when said hero is also the object of masturbatory fantasies and has been since his first album came out fucking forever ago. Bill using something he said, once, while off-his-face drunk is not fair. So Pete goes right back to the beginning of this conversation. “No.”

“The fuck do you mean no?” Bill demands. He sounds actually affronted, like Pete’s the crazy one here. “I’ve been trying to get this shit okayed since he came on the tour. Come on, Pete. It’s your fanboy wet dream come true. You know you want to. You’ve seen him in concert like seven times. This time you’ll get to do it from stage left. Stop being a dick.”

“Bill, I- What the fuck? I thought you were opening for My Chemical Romance.” He remembers Bill telling him about it. Nowhere had Patrick Stump entered the conversation.

“Yeah. We are. But their drummer fucked up his wrist again and he’s friends with Patrick. He subbed for two weeks while he rested it and now, well the guy is kind of a workaholic. He really only knows how to be on tour or in the studio. And fuck, fourth on a bill that includes My Chem and Patrick Stump isn’t bad okay? Besides, he’s a cool guy. He didn’t even get offended when I told him what you thought about his mouth.”

“Motherfucker, I-“

“Kidding. Jesus. Chill. But if you don’t say yes, I’m going to tell him the next time the buses stop for gas.” Bill declared. “I’m going to take your silence for agreement. You get a plus one so you can bring your little shadow if you want. And if you are really going to be all weird about Stump, get there earlier and hide in our dressing room.”

“You’re more evil than those fucking penguins.”

Bill laughs and hangs up, leaving Pete alone with his store. One of his mixes is on the stereo and it clicks over to a Patrick Stump song, making Pete groan. He’s tempted to throw up the out to lunch sign and go take a nap, but the high schools are getting out about now and Clandestine always gets at least a half a dozen teenage girls this time of day and he needs the business.

It’s cool, and all, having his own store with his own clothing line. After being in a band, it was his biggest goal when he was younger. He’s his own boss doing what he wants and he loves Clandestine Industries, really. He just didn’t think about the part where it would be so much fucking work.

His parents also left out the slow side of the “chasing your dream” speech when he was a kid. He’s been living on a mattress in his store room since he moved to a bigger store. It’s cheaper that way than trying to find an apartment in the city and he couldn’t live in his parents’ basement anymore. After a certain point, it stopped being cost efficient and became just plain sad. This way, everything he has goes back into this store.

That kind of dedication is something people seem to admire so he deserves this right? He can go see his favorite musician perform Thursday and it’s not a big deal. Besides he hasn’t really seen the guy play seven times. It’s six because the summer he followed Warped around only counts as one.

Besides, Bill isn’t the type to make idle threats. So looking at it that way, he doesn’t have a choice. Pete glances up as the bell on his door dings with the first of the after-school crowd and decides to just go with it.

~*~*~

Ryan breezes into the store just after three on Thursday afternoon, talking about his graduate seminar and holy shit, Pete so doesn’t care. Not that he finds Ryan boring, most of the time. Even at his most pedantic and ridiculous, the kid is usually the most entertaining part of Pete’s day – which is one of the main reasons why Pete hasn’t fired him for being late all the time (well, that and the fact that he lets Pete use his shower so that he doesn't have to get the store rezoned for one) – but everything is basically white noise to him right now.

He’s had Patrick Stump’s second and third albums on repeat in the store stereo all day. He keeps coming back to Hope He Is a Gentleman from the second album and wondering if he'll play it acoustic like he did at that show Pete caught in '07, or fully electric like usual.

His ridiculous voice is all Pete wants to hear right now. “I really don’t care about some dead Victorian poet, Ryan. Go do inventory or something. Silently.”

“They’re not Victorian, they’re Edwardian. There’s a difference,” Ryan huffs. He glances at the thirteen year old girl riffling through a stack of t-shirts then leans across the counter to whisper. “You look like shit. What crawled up your ass and died?”

“Nothing, just, there’s a lot of stuff I need you to do so we can close early tonight.” There isn’t actually but Pete can already feel pre-concert jitters rising on his skin. It’s not the same as when he used to get on stage himself, but Pete still fucking loves it.

“Oh right. Bill’s band. I know you got out of taking me last time because of that stupid exam.”Ryan points an accusatory finger in his face, like it was Pete’s fault his American Lit professor’s test schedule fucked with their plans. “But you promised and it’s not going to go down like that this time.”

“I know.”

“Okay, awesome. So. What are you wearing?”

Pete shrugs. “I’ve known these guys since college man. They don’t give a shit what I wear.”

Ryan stares at him, all big brown soulful eyes, and Pete sighs. The little shit knows him way too well.

“Skinny jeans, checkered Converse hightops, the new t-shirt we got in yesterday and my 5o4 Plan hoodie. ”

“Is it the one with the robot watching his heart fly away?” Ryan asks. His face softens. “I like that one. What color?”

“White.”

“Fuck that. Color, Pete. Color. The blue one looked really good in the design stages.”

Pete’s eyes flick around the store briefly, glancing everywhere but taking in nothing. “Dude, customers. Don’t say fuck.”

“Whatever,” Ryan sighs as if the weight of the world sits on his chest. “Princess Twilight left like five minutes ago. Blue. Or purple. You abuse purple like a crackhead on the pipe.”

“Purple is majestic, asshole. And who does crack anymore?”

“Yeah, it’s beyond majestic. I’d say its fucking queenly, almost as regal as you are.”

“Says the boy wearing eye shadow.”

“Hey.” Ryan’s hand flutters up to the hint of blue on his face before he catches himself. Once he does, he tries to make it look cool as he shoves it into the pocket of his pants. They’re hideous – corduroy and a not-quiet-brown that looks like old flakey blood – and it looks extra awkward. “It’s a highlight.”

“Yeah. I bet it is.”

“Look, Pete, trust me. The blue one. It’s bright but you don’t look you all Violet Beauregard just squeezed out of the Wonka juicer. Everybody wins.”

“I am not going to take advice from you. You’re wearing my grandpa’s pants.”

“You are and you will because if you agree to this, I will stop talking and close for you and I’ll give you my keys so you can go shower, right now.”

Fucking Ryan fucking Ross. One day, Pete is going to get a real apartment instead of living in his store's inventory room. One with a bathroom that has an actual bath in it. Then what will Ryan have to hold over him? Nothing. Pete will have all the power once again.

“Blue,” Pete repeats. He narrows his eyes at his supposed employee. This could totally be a trap.

“Yep.”

“I hate you. You know this right?”

Ryan smirks at him. “Yep.”  
  
“All right. Just so we’re clear. And I plan to use all your hot water.”

“I showered this morning. That’s Spencer’s problem.”

Spencer doesn’t seem to have much of a problem when Pete rolls into his and Ryan’s two-bedroom apartment an hour later. He’s sprawled out on the couch that usually acts as Brendon’s bed, an arm slung behind his head watching the Food Network. He only seems to acknowledge Pete when he crosses in front of the TV. “Ryan’s closing?” he asks, not looking up.

“Yeah. I’m meeting him at the Logan Square stop on the red line.” Pete says, toeing off his shoes and leaving them on the floor. His Converse are in his bag with clean clothes anyway. “Brendon here?” He may rethink the pants he brought if Brendon’s around to steal from.

“He’s working late.” Spencer nods and hits mute on what seems to be Iron Chef America. “Dude, don’t leave your shit all over the floor. You guys won’t come back for two days and I’m going to have to pick it up.”

Pete mock-curtseys and ducks down to grab his shoes and chuck them into Ryan’s room. “You got it, princess. And before you have a stroke – heads up, I’m using your body wash. Ryan’s smells like an old man and yours is all citrusy.” Because smelling like an orange is always better than smelling like mothballs and hard candy left in a pocket too long. Not that that’s what Ryan’s soap actually smells like, but it might as well. He liked it better when Ryan was all about glitter and flowers. He had better shit to borrow.

“That’s Brendon’s. I use Old Spice.”

That makes Pete’s eyebrows shoot up. He steals their shower four or five days a week and that’s a new development. “Are you the man your man could smell like, Spencer Smith?”

Spencer dignifies that by sitting up a little. He stares at Pete even has he edges away – towards hot water and towels that are probably mostly clean and away from Spencer’s wide eyes. “That sentence doesn’t even make sense.”

“Look again,” Pete declares, once he’s safely in the bathroom. “Your towels are now diamonds!” He shuts the door, laughing before Spencer can throw the remote at him. He’s got ridiculously good aim and all the black eyes Pete’s gotten since he stopped going to hardcore shows every weekend come from Spencer’s pitching arm.

“Whatever. And if you’re going to jerk off in my shower again make sure I don’t hear it this time!” Spencer shouts back. “And don’t leave the fucking towels on the floor!”

Pete rolls his eyes and climbs into their cramped shower. Even as small as it is it’s better than the wash cloth and loofah set-up he makes do with in the Employee’s Only bathroom at the store. He can actually get his entire head under a stream of hot water and it’s better than all the sex he’s not getting lately.

He burns about fifteen minutes scrubbing his skin and washing his hair with Brendon’s ridiculous fruity shower gel and shampoo then he just stands there letting the water beat off two days of sweat and work. He leans against the ugly 1970s green tile wall of the shower with his eyes shut.

He’s not nervous or anything but the tension sluices off of him with the water and like he almost always does when he’s relaxed, or you know, breathing, his mind wanders. Fragments of thoughts, images and song lyrics drift in and out and settles as they so often do on Patrick Stump ones. Pete’s got a mental rolodex of Patrick’s voice from years of collecting bootlegs, LPs, and other shit that most sane fans don’t give half a shit about. It’s hard not to though when just the memory of his voice and pictures of his face in Rolling Stone or AP magazine do stupid, stupid shit to Pete, things like make him hard in his best friends’ shower.

His imagination does most of the work. Patrick’s not one of those stars who wear torn up clothes that you can see right through. Bill tends to like his shirts to ride up and his jeans to ride down for maximum skin exposure on stage. Every live show and video clip of Patrick that Pete’s ever seen is practically Victorian by comparison. That way Pete’s best mental pictures are of the guy in a wet t-shirt or button down.

Not that that’s a bad thing. Which is okay because Pete’s brain is more has always been more than capable of utilizing images like that, imagining what it’d be like to suck on skin through soaked cotton and feel soft lips against panting his ear. He can picture working through layers of clothes to touch pale skin, warm and soft. He wonders what those lovely curved lips would taste like, how a second dick in his fist would change the speed and pressure of his thrusts, and comes against the wall of the shower. It’s not exactly the classiest thing he’s ever done but hey, at least he wasn’t loud.

“You’re a pig, Wentz!” Spencer calls through the door. “If I find any flakes, I’m setting all your shoes on fire.”

Pete sighs. Oh well. He’d tried to be quiet at least. That’s really all anyone can expect of him. He grabs the showerhead and redirects the spray to erase any stray evidence before climbing out.

He grabs Spencer’s towel – he knows it was Spencer’s because it was actually hung up and it smelled kind of like Old Spice – wraps it around his hips and stares in the mirror. He doesn’t look bad. His hair’s a lot shorter than it was the last time he saw Bill and the rest of the guys, his bangs on his forehead but out of his eyes. He’s thinner, has a few more tattoos, and a little less of a tan.

Mostly he looks tired. That’s because he is, though. He busts his ass on ten and twelve hour shifts six and seven days a week, not counting the time he spends designing and fighting with his textile people. He looks his age, a guy in his early thirties with a full-time career, even if it is one he loves where it’s okay to wear eyeliner to work. Now he’s going to hang out with a group of rock stars he hasn’t seen in ages, since he thought he was going to be one too.

He sighs and runs a hand through his wet hair, making it stand up the way he used to. He grabs some of Brendon’s gel, because he left that in his bathroom at Clan, and tries to beat his hair into submission. He steals Ryan’s “highlighting” eye shadows and lines his eyes in the dark brown and feels more like someone he recognizes from the last time he hung out with Bill Beckett even before he has any clothes on.

He grins at the mirror and the reflection looks about ten years younger than he feels. He looks like someone Bill and Tom and Sisky will recognize. He doesn’t bother to shave as he pulls on his clothes and lets himself get really excited about the show tonight.

He leaves the towel on the floor when he leaves, though. He has to, just to hear Spencer curse as he closes the apartment door behind him.

~*~*~

Backstage at the United Center is actually underground. It's a concrete and cinderblock tunnel full of techies in black and musicians, also in black. The extra people who do things Pete can only imagine buzz around like worker drones in a beehive. Pete’s never been in a venue this big and on the way in, his main focus is to get to TAI’s dressing room and keep Ryan from getting lost on the way. He keeps starting to wander off after this musician or that guitar tech and Pete has to catch him by the belt loops of his ugly as sin grandpa pants and drag him back.

Once they get to the dressing room, it’s all people – napping or listening to music or drinking or trying to shove their legs into pants a size too small. It's his twenties all over again. It’s a bigger better version of the gigs he used to conjure from the ether. Pete feels it in his bones and he admits to himself that yeah, he really misses this.

Then he gets tackled and Bill Beckett humps him like something out of a Tom Green movie and demands that Pete give him his full attention. If nothing else, Bill can fucking talk and there’s a lot to talk about. Tom is gone, which Pete isn’t sure how he missed exactly, and there’s talk of the VMAs and a new album. Pete listens where he would’ve held court five years ago until the nearly gravitational pull of Christine being right here, in town, becomes too much temptation for Bill to resist in favor of talking to Pete.

Programming a reminder into his Sidekick to call and find out how far out of the loop he’s really let himself get isn’t the most comforting thing ever, but it does help. He doesn’t even feel guilty talking music with the replacement, Chislett. Mike Carden keeps hanging on Chislett and trying to convince Pete of how this guy is the very best human being to ever live, to the point where Pete thinks the two of them might be fucking. Pete can see Sisky and Butcher laughing at him from across the room.

Pete watches out of the corner of one eye as Sisky and Bill exchange some sort of telepathic message. Carden’s telling him about how Chislett's going to show them around Australia next time they have a world tour, so Pete misses whatever the mind-chat resulted in until Bill walks over and drapes an arm over Pete’s shoulders and declares, “We’re out of beer.”

That is a blatant lie. William Beckett has a half full bottle of Bud dangling from his long fingers. Pete is looking right at it. “Oh, are you, now?”

“Yeah. This one’s the last one. Can you run to the green room and grab the cooler the chick from Paramore thinks we don’t know about? You can have your mini-me help when you find him. Butcher saw him leave like ten minutes ago.”

“What?”

“I got eyes everywhere. They’re like fifteen and they’re hording beer. It’s not classy. And it’s that watery light shit.”

It takes Pete a second to realize that Bill is talking about Paramore. It doesn’t make things make that much more sense but everything is in pre-show chaos so Pete doesn’t really expect too much logic. “This why you dragged me here? To be a mule for your moonshine?”

Bill grins at him. “No you’re here because I’m too pretty for you to stay away from.” He gives Pete a smacking kiss on the cheek, then points. “And I’m kind of afraid of what’ll happen to Pete version 2.0 if he wanders into the My Chem dressing room. He dresses bad enough, throw in that table top shit they do and he’ll never get laid and out of your hair.”

Pete laughs “You’re a humanitarian. If you cure cancer be sure to let me know."

“It’s on my list. But first, beer. Beeeeeeeeeeeer, Peter. Beer. You remember beer don’t you? Bubbly. Golden. Alcoholic. Awesome before a kick ass rock show. Come on old man, you remember how to rock, don’t you?”

Fuck. Him, Pete thinks. He gives Bill a shove because he’s no one’s bitch but his own. “You have roadies and, like, groupies for this shit.”

“Yes, but tonight I have you. Dance, monkey, dance.”

Pete points a finger in his face. “I’m only doing this because I scalped those tickets for like fifty bucks a piece more than they cost me in the parking lot on the way in and I was just going to spend it on drugs and prostitutes anyway.”

“Dude, I can get you prostitutes. And drugs. Wait?” Bill pauses with a thoughtful expression. “What kind of drugs? No, I can get those, too. Never mind. So beer? Finding a gopher who isn’t busy doing actual work will take forever.”

He looks so hopeful that Pete can’t help but laugh. “Yeah. Like you would know actual work if it attached itself to your head like a facehugger.”

“I think I’d figure it out before the alien burst out of my chest though. Just so long as you come back with beer.”

“Yeah, that’s because you’re an optimist,” Pete calls over his shoulder.

He gets turned around three times trying to find the green room. Everything looks the same – one giant halogen lit maze with industrial doors and no discernable layout. There probably is one Pete just can’t be assed to figure it out. He just walks with a hand on the wall until he hits an open door with a table covered in food visible from outside.

It’s not green though Pete’s pretty sure that isn’t supposed to be literal. There are a few people milling around inside. He recognizes the bassist of My Chemical Romance ferreting through a stack of Frito-Lay products and figures he’s probably in the right place.

“Hey, Mikey right?” Pete asks, even though he knows. He’s a fan and has been since Tim handed him a burned copy of Bullets after an Arma Angelus practice session in his mom’s basement.

Mikey Way was almost as bad a bassist as he was back in the day. He saw him play at Warped a couple times. He hasn’t seen them live in years but over the years he’s gotten pretty good. Of course he doesn’t look like a solid musician twisted around with three things of Cooler Ranch Doritos in one hand, two 20 oz. Coke Zeroes in the other, and lift an eyebrow as if to say ‘yeah what?’

“Do you know where the beer is?”

Mikey drops his eyebrow like that’s answer enough. Then he glances back at the snack table. “You haven’t seen any of the Pizza flavored ones have you? I look everywhere we play and I can’t find them.”

“I think they got discontinued like ten years ago, dude.”

“Fuck, really?” Mikey looks genuinely disappointed. “Shit.” He sighs and scratches behind his ear with one of the bags of chips. “Wait, who are you?”

“Pete.” He holds out a hand, which Mikey looks at like it’s a puzzle. Of course with two full hands, Pete can see why. He goes for a classic no-I-was-really-just-going-to-smooth-my-hair move. “Pete Wentz. I’m a friend of William Beckett and the other Academy guys.”

“Right right. The guy with the batheart thing.”

“Yeah,” Pete replies, trying not to smile too widely just because the bassist of My Chemical Romance knows his logo. He’s a man on a mission here. “So, hey, do you know where the beer is?”

“In here somewhere. Probably that way. I don’t drink man, sorry. Yo, Patrick,” Mikey calls over his shoulder, “Show this guy to the beer will you? I gotta go.” He illustrates this by waving his beverage hand at the door. “We can’t find Bob.”

“Are you kidding me?” Comes the reply and Pete’s heart fucking stops.

He’s going to pass out and die. No, really. He is, because My Chemical Romance Mikey just asked Patrick fucking Stump to show him to the beer. He knew it was possible he could see the guy; he’s the fucking headliner. But this was just way too surreal.

“No. You know I don’t know where they keep the booze, dude.”

“I meant about Bob. You sure it’s not Ray who’s wandered off? Or Gerard? I mean, he gets lost sometimes. Remember the show in Boise? You guys were like an hour late.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. So, I gotta go, we’re calling out the sniffer dogs and shit. See you up there.” Mikey gives him a nod before darting out of the green room in search of the missing Bob. “Nice to meet you, Pete.”

“You too,” Pete chokes out, nodding like a bobble head doll even after Mikey’s gone. When he manages to make himself stop, he turns and comes face to face with Patrick Stump.

Patrick looks better than he does in the pictures. He’s shorter too, complete with a green trucker hat pulled down over his forehead wearing an open light blue plaid button-down over bright red shirt and khaki slacks like any suburban guy off the street. He’s smiling a little and Patrick’s mouth, fuck, his smile, is even more amazing in person.

He’s also a lot shorter in person than Pete was expecting. He’s got such a big voice that Pete was not prepared for a guy who was shorter than he was, even though somewhere he realizes he must’ve known that.

“Hey, sorry about that,” Patrick says, holding out a hand. “I’m Patrick. That was Mikey and he’s not usually that bad with people. They’ve misplaced their drummer.”

“It happens.” He manages to not sound like a complete tool as he shakes Patrick’s hand. It feels good because Patrick’s hand is warm, but it isn’t soft. The pads of his fingers were rough and hard in places with calluses. It was a detail he really didn’t need. It made him seriously glad he wore these jeans, even if it is already a little painful. The chance for embarrassing himself is a lot lower.

“Sometimes,” Patrick agrees with another little smile, mostly just deepening the corners of his mouth. He takes his hand back and shoves it into a pocket. “So Bill sent you for beer, huh? It’s like he thinks he’d break a nail or something.”

Pete’s brain finally beats his hormones into submission as he searches for an appropriate retort. Instead, now that he’s not focused on how intensely bangable Patrick turned out to be live and in person, his eyes and mouth leap ahead of his ability to think shit through. “You’re wearing my shirt,” Pete blurts out.

That makes him sound like a crazy person and it shows on Patrick’s face. His shock-widened eyes look green instead blue. It’s nice. Unfortunately, there’s still the shock factor. “What?”

“My shirt. You’re wearing my shirt.” Yes, because repeating the same thing again will make things so much better. He is such a fucking idiot. It’s not his fault though. He hasn’t had a crush on anyone this intense since he was on the freshman soccer team.

At least then Pete had never been forced to talk to him because the guy played for the catholic school and situations like this didn’t happen. Thank God for that, too. He’s a master at getting people to give a fuck or to show up but he always seems to magically transform into a colossal dork when he really cares. This is bad but he can’t imagine how much worse it would’ve been if he were attempting this at fourteen.

“No, I’m not,” Patrick shoots back. Color is rising in his cheeks and his shoulders hunch forward and he folds his arms over his chest. “I put it in my luggage and then I wore it for four days and now I’m wearing it because it’s my shirt, that I bought.”

It’s not that hard to recognize the “the best defense is a good offense” strategy. Pete knows it when he sees it. Ryan’s great at it. So’s his little sister. At this point, the only option left is damage control. “No, wait. Seriously, I didn’t mean that.”

“Okay, so what did you mean? Look, if you’re drunk, I’m going to call Bill to come get you because you’ve got a problem. It’s barely seven, man.”

“No, I meant the design.” Pete points at his own shirt, at the robot with the escaping heart then at Patrick’s shirt, with his Bear Boy character carrying a bear on his back. “I’m Pete Wentz and Clandestine Industries is my company so,” he gives Patrick what he hopes is a reassuring smile, “you’re kind of wearing my shirt. Technically.”

The pink in Patrick’s cheeks goes from rosy to worrying and races down his neck. His eyes drop down to Pete’s chest and then to the floor. “Oh. Yeah. Right. That, no, that makes sense. Bill’s got one of the one’s with the logo. He’s how I found your site.” He scratches at the back of his neck and all right, that is fucking endearing.

Pete is grinning and can’t seem to make himself stop. “You really wore it for four days?”

“Yeah. We don’t get a lot of chances to do laundry on the road.” The blush is receding, but his cheeks are still a little flushed, and his fucking ears are pink at the tips.

It’s freaking precious. He’d never have expected Patrick to be shy, but blushing looks so good on him. Oh yeah, Pete is in so much fucking trouble.

He knows that and yet there he stands, hands tucked into the back pockets of his jeans, beaming at Patrick like a total idiot. “So you wore my shirt for four days.”

He chuckles. “Uh, no? Today’s actually number five, so you might want to stay over there,” he points at the space between them. “I haven’t seen a real shower in like, a week.”

Pete remembers the grimy-filth caked feeling fairly well. He toured back in the day. Of course Arma Angelus never really got out of the Midwest, and he could usually find someone to let him and the guys crash on their couch and use their bathroom to clean up. Back before he hired Ryan and started hijacking his shower, he used to push it pretty far before he went home to shower.

Of course that’s not what he says. Because that would make sense. No, what comes out is, “That sucks. I had one like an hour before I got here.”

Where Pete had jerked off to the fantasy of hooking up with the guy in front of him. Why did he even bring it up? Because he’s an idiot, that’s why.

At least Patrick doesn’t seem to notice. In fact, he just laughs. “Ignore me. I’ll just be here seething with jealousy. I’m hoping I can sneak out to my mom’s before we roll out tonight and get a real shower.” Patrick crosses his fingers. “I’m calling in all my favors to get past the tour manager.”

“Worried about your hair becoming sentient under that hat?”

Patrick laughs with his whole body. It’s clear that he finds that fucking hilarious and something warm expands in Pete’s chest. He was supposed to do something here but he can’t remember what because Patrick Stump’s got a crazy laugh and gets his sense of humor.

“I think I’ll get some warning before it crawls away.”

“That’s kind of horrifying.”

“Yeah,” Patrick agrees with another one of those little mouth quirks. “I really like this hat.”

“I like it, too.” Pete says and then they’re just standing there smiling at each other.

The moment draws out thin and glittering like a spider’s web after it rains. The fantasy Patrick in his head and the awkwardly interesting guy in front of him are crashing together in Pete’s head and he knows there are other people in the green room, he just can’t give a shit who they are or anything pretty much besides the way Patrick’s eyes look bright in the shitty overhead lights.

It’s Patrick who breaks the silence first. He tugs his hat a little lower on his forehead and says, “So, uh, you needed to bring Bill beer?”

Bill who? Oh right. Beckett. That guy who he’s been friends with for forever and a half. “Yeah. Probably. And I need to find my friend, Ryan. He got loose.”

That earns Pete another laugh. It’s kind of awesome. “Got loose? Was he on a leash or something?”

“No, but that’s just poor planning on my part.”

“You’ll know better next time, I guess.”

“I’ll have to. This is why I can’t have nice things, I guess.”

“Oh come on, everyone gets nice things,” Patrick says, leading Pete across the room, skirting around the small clusters of people picking at food and drinking. Pete follows and wishes that Patrick wore clothes that fit him better. His khakis don’t really give anything away. “Like take this cooler of beer, for example. It’s pretty nice.” he says, lifting the lid of one of about six Igloo coolers.

It must have been refilled recently since full of mostly cans and ice, rather than water. “Awesome. Mission accomplished." He beams at Patrick. "You just got me the metaphoric flag at the end of the level on Super Mario Brothers. You’re like Yoshi, only I’m not riding you.”

There’s a moment of silence where Pete wishes he could kill himself by sheer will alone. It’s possibly the worst sentence Pete has ever uttered in his whole fucking life. It’s got that perfect combination of horrifically nerdy and inadvertently filthy. Yeah, death would be awesome right about now.

Then Patrick’s eyes go wide. Pete braces himself for this surreal encounter to finally go sour as it’s been poised to since the word go, with Pete’s ridiculous crush and huge mouth.

Instead of telling Pete where he can shove it, he says, “Holy shit. For some reason I just had this image of Bill as Princess Peach. I’m pretty sure my head just exploded.”

“Marry me.” Pete’s brain must have just _broken_ because he did not just say that. Please God.

Of course he did. Patrick blinks at him, a little confused. “What?”

“Uh, help carry this with me?” Pete asks, gesturing awkwardly at the cooler. Patrick seems to buy that. That’s good because Pete sure as hell didn’t when he heard it come out of his mouth.

“Yeah, sure.” He looks down at the cooler. “We each grab a handle?”

“That works,” Pete agrees and picks up the plastic handle by his knee. It’s obscenely heavy, water and booze and ice all light on their own but together, obnoxious and unwieldy. Pete’s more used to working with cardboard boxes full of shirts and hoodies and pants and dresses.

“Well,” Patrick says as they get a couple of hundred feet down the hallway. “This sucks. I think they put the beer in the one that didn’t have wheels on purpose.”

“I head Paramore was hoarding. It’s probably a preventative measures.”

“Hoarding,” Patrick repeats. His amusement is conveyed through the grunt of exertion. “It’s not like there are stacks of cats on their bus or something.”

“It probably wouldn’t be very practical to stack cats. I mean,” Pete shifts his grip on his handle. His palm is sweaty from being fucking nervous for so long talking to Patrick and his hand keeps sliding. “They wouldn’t like it. But you could totally do it with enough, like, duct tape and catnip. You’d need to get them docile first, probably.”

Twisting to give Pete another of those looks is a feat with the cooler in his hands, but Patrick manages it. Pete’s kind of glad. The pressure of his eyes on Pete’s face is almost tactile. It feels good, but it does go on for a little too long.

“What?”

“It’s kind of scary how fast you seemed to formulate a plan for something like that.”

His grin splits his face wide. He probably looks like a Batman villain – the Joker or maybe the stitched-on Scarecrow smile. “You don’t know. Maybe I’ve got hidden depths.”

“No,” Patrick agrees, looking down at the cooler between them. “I don’t know.” He pauses, like he’s about to say something else – Pete’s got high hopes. Let’s grab a drink after the show, come blow me before it, come keep me company while we sound check so we can talk old video games no one plays anymore – all of those are on the list of hopeful prospects.

Bill ruins it with his timing that’s still just as sharp as it was when they were too young to get their booze legal. “Beer! Our heroes have returned victorious. Away.” He grins and grabs the handle out of Patrick’s hand and hauls Pete into the dressing room. It’s good to see his cock-blocking skills haven’t gotten rusty since the last time he kept Pete from getting laid.

“You’re a god among men,” Bill declares. He’s got an arm draped around Pete’s neck keeping him from checking over his shoulder to see if Patrick was still there.

Pete laughs a little, mostly with relief at not having to carry the heavy cooler anymore. “You are the laziest fucker ever.”

“Not true. Didn’t you see Se7en? The sloth guy was way lazier than me. Anyway.” He ducks his head beside Pete’s and drags him down as he bends over for a beer. They’re both bent with their faces less than two feet from the floor when Bill says, “So, I see you met my friend Patrick and his mouth.”

There’s a fun flash of panic that makes Pete want to jerk up to see if Patrick is still here. If so, if he was close enough to hear. Bill’s hold on him stops Pete from doing anything but choking out, “Don’t.”

“I’m not. I’m not anything. I’m just saying. I see you met. And he’s single and less straight than MTV makes him seem. Just saying, is what I’m saying.”

“God, I hate you,” Pete sighs.

Bill lets go and digs in the cold cans. “You want a beer?”

“Two. Really, don’t fucking say anything.”

It’s stunning that Bill actually doesn’t. Not about Patrick at least. Instead he pops the tap of his beer and takes a thoughtful sip. “I kinda notice that you didn’t find your mini-me.”

“Ryan?”

“Is that his name? Carden says hasn’t come back yet. You seemed responsible for him so, I thought I’d let you know. Last thing you need is for him to get all tangled up with hookers and blow.”

Pete glances around. “Where are hookers and blow? You said I had to ask for that special.”

“Dude, my kid’s here. There’s no hookers and no blow. Besides, My Chem’s practically Straight Edge. But, you know, we’re on in like fifteen, so you might want to find him before the chaos starts.” He sets his beer down on the nearest precarious table edge then darts across the room to snatch Genevieve up in a giggling hug out of the arms of someone –

Oh. Of course. Patrick Stump, he of the amazing voice and the insane smile and the rough but warm skin, had been holding her and Pete turned just into to see him pass her over to her father. The sight isn’t the sort of thing photo shoots or magazines would ever capture. It’s so much better.

He catches Pete staring and the happy expression his face shifts from the little girl to Pete. The feeling is like being locked in a bone-melting tractor beam and somehow he ends up across the room, in front of Patrick, holding out a beer. “I thought you’d want one, considering all the work you put into getting it here.”

Their fingers brush again as Patrick takes it. There’s another little jolt of heat. This time Pete’s prepared though, so he notices the way Patrick’s head ducks down, just a little bit, as he smiles. “Thanks.”

Given the choice, Pete could stand like this forever. He wants to. There’s a lot of small talk to get through to the “tell me all your secrets” stage that Pete is already itching to jump to.

Unfortunately, Ryan is a plus one, not a pass holder like Pete, so if he gets kicked out it could be days before he made it back to the store or his apartment. Spencer had been really, really pissed the last time Pete lost him. He hadn’t showered for two weeks. Customers had complained. Damnit.

“Hey, this is going to sound weird, but I have to find my cashier. He’s technically an adult, but he doesn’t really act like it. I need to drag him back to civilization before people start needing to do real work, so,” he makes a vague gesture at the door.

Patrick looks briefly stunned then nods, stepping back. “Yeah, right. Of course. Sorry. Don’t let me keep you.”

He looks kicked. Pete’s been single forever and he almost forgot what that expression looked like. It doesn’t work on Patrick. His mouth’s built to quirk up. Pete wants to get it back that way.

“You could come with me. I mean, I could use the extra eyes, if you want. I just thought you’ve got a concert to get ready for.”

“The Academy and My Chem have got at least an hour a piece not counting set up and take down. I’ve got time. Come on. I’ve played this venue before, I know a few places we can look.”

He takes Pete by the wrist and guides him out of The Academy Is…’s dressing room and into a hallway. Pete’s usually the one to lead in any given situation – whether he knows what he’s doing or not. This time, though, he’s pretty content to follow.

~*~*~

[Part 2](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/361095.html)


	2. Chapter 2

  
They wander beneath the arena for half an hour, Bill’s voice filtering down through the floor. Patrick seems pretty intent on the Ryan hunt so Pete carries the majority of the conversation. He talks about himself because that’s what he does most of the time anyway, but more so when he’s nervous.

Keeping the focus of conversation on himself has the added benefit of avoiding the over-intimacy Pete has with Patrick’s history. He’s read way too many articles and watched way too many interviews featuring Patrick over the years. He’s got a fucking rolodex of stupid ridiculous factoids that any fan could find about Patrick and he’s half afraid that if he asks anything, that’ll show.

So he babbles – mostly random things like how he still feels a little silly starting a clothing company. He tells Patrick how Ryan wandered into his store one Tuesday five years ago when he was just an undergrad covered in scarves, glitter, and velvet, and just never left. He tells him how he wishes he’d majored in music back in college given how absolutely useless his poli-sci degree turned out to be.

Patrick throws in his own opinions as casually as he pulls open doors. “At least you had the college experience. I didn’t get past eleventh grade.”

“Your parents let you do that? At sixteen?” His parents had been in the “clinging but not too tight” stage when he was sixteen. He was still reeling from boot camp and they were trying to piece him back together. They wouldn’t have let him go like Patrick’s parents’ must have.

“Not exactly. I sort of capitalized on my folks’ divorce. I managed to convince my dad to let me go when I started finding places outside of Chicagoland that wanted me to play.” Patrick opens another door on an empty room. “Once he said yes, my mom couldn’t really do anything, because then it’d turn into a custody thing and at sixteen, they let you pick.”

“And you would’ve picked the parent who’d let you tour.”

Patrick stops and shrugs like he’s trying to pull free of the casual grip he’s had on Pete’s wrist this whole time. But he doesn’t let go. “Yeah. I would’ve and we all knew it. So Mom let me go and Dad took off from work to take me.”

“Wow. That’s-“ Pete stops mid-thought because he needs a second. He fills the time by sliding his hand up so that Patrick’s not holding his wrist anymore. Now their palms are pressed together and it only takes a little maneuvering to lock their fingers.

It seems like the only thing to do. This conversation is nothing that made an interview or a sound bite. It’s flawed, calculated, and it’s Patrick Stump the reality of whom just keeps proving to be better than Pete’s old fantasies.

Patrick isn’t looking at him or their linked hands. He doesn’t notice the way Pete is smiling at him either. So Pete squeezes his hand before he says, “That’s fucking evil.”

“I know, right? I was a shitty kid. I’ve tried to buy her a house like four times to make up for it, but she’d rather hang onto the guilt. She thinks it’s more valuable.”

“Is it?”

“Oh, hell yes.” Patrick laughs. “I haven’t missed a holiday in years, let alone her birthday or Mother’s Day. I got my GED before she let me record the second album though, so it worked out I guess.”

“The second one’s my favorite. Hope He is a Gentleman is one of the best hooks you’ve ever done,” Pete says without thinking. Then he stops and bites his lip because fuck, really, he wasn’t going to talk about the music. He’d promised himself.

Patrick looks ready to say something. Pete has no idea what, probably about how creepy Pete is. Then he’ll give his hand back and tell Pete to stop being a fucking stalker. Instead, he holds up a hand and tilts his head to the side. “Do you hear that?”

All he hears is the opening strains of We’ve Got a Big Mess on Our Hands filtering down from above. “Hear what?”

Patrick doesn’t answer. He just drags Pete forward to a closed double door that looks like it might be some sort of conference room. The door is stuck but oh fuck yeah, Pete hears it now. Some sort of banging and maybe a groaning noise.

Patrick gets the door open but it sticks. He pushes on it with his shoulder like his arm is a battering ram. Pete can hear and feel the impact and it makes his skin buzz. It’s clearly not all the effort Patrick can throw behind his weight, and it makes Pete’s skin feel hot everywhere.

“Help me with this?” Patrick asks. He could probably get more force with both hands, but he’s not letting go which Pete is completely fine with. “I’m not a very big guy. So, on three? Three.”

They both bodily hit the door and it’s not until they stumble into the empty room that Pete realizes what a terribly bad idea this was. His entire body goes slack with shock and Patrick covers his mouth with both hands because really. “Wow.” Pete chokes out because really, that’s about all there is to it.

The room is filled with racks of folding chairs. The blond drummer for My Chemical Romance is braced against one of them, his left hand grasping at shining brown metal like it’s the only thing keeping him standing. Ryan’s folded up behind him, bumping against another rack of chairs with every move. H is ugly paisley shirt hanging open and his pants and boxers only one leg. His eyes are screwed shut and Ryan’s got his face buried against the back of his neck.

It’s weirdly incongruous because Bob Bryar is broader than Ryan, bigger than him in every way except height. It should look silly but Bob leans back into Ryan’s thin frame and even from across the room, it looks to Pete like they fit. They also look weirdly hot, but Ryan’s attractiveness has always been sort of strange so that’s not too surprising.

“We should leave,” Patrick says, tripping backwards. He catches the back of Pete’s shirt and pulls. “We should go now.”

That is of course when Ryan lifts his head and looks at them. His cheeks are flushed and his lips are swollen. He looks dirty and way older than he should. He’s been about twelve in Pete’s head for so long that he doesn’t know how to cope with what he’s seeing.

“Pete?” Ryan pants. “What the- Get the fuck out!”

Patrick is dragging him out bodily out the door and slams it behind him. They fall against the door, which with the concert above and the sold metal between them drowns out most of the sound. Pete bangs his head against the door twice before sliding down to sit on the linoleum.

“So, we found Mikey’s lost drummer.”’

Patrick sighs. “Yeah, we did. And your missing cashier.”

“Yeah. I- Wow.” Pete leans his head back to look up at Patrick. “I maybe should’ve slept with Ryan when he offered me back in the day.”

Patrick lifts an eyebrow and it makes his hat look tilted. “You didn’t?” There’s something in his tone that says he might have and Pete can’t really blame him. Not after that.

“I think he was like barely eighteen at the time.”

“Did you have some kind of moral issue with that?” Patrick asks, sliding down to sit beside him. There’s a hint of judgment in the question, but mostly he just sounds curious.

“Heh, no but I think I had a girlfriend at the time? Or a boyfriend? I don’t remember. But I don’t fuck around.” Not coupled up anyway. Single shit is fair game but he’s been cheated on one time too many to do that.

“You don’t?”

“Nope, I don’t remember much about it besides how awkward the whole thing was. Also, he didn’t look like that. He looked a lot more…eighteen and sparkly than sweaty and hot because wow.”

“Yeah.” Patrick agrees, staring across the hallway into the middle distance. “I forgot he looked like that when he was getting fucked, you know?”

Pete stares at him. He doesn’t even bother to hide it. He just stares at Patrick’s calm face and tries to figure out the fuck he’s talking about. “Um, no?”

“What?” Patrick blinks at him, stunned.

“He?” Okay, so Bill wasn’t lying about the whole not as straight as he seemed on MTV after all.

“Oh.” Patrick just shook his head. “Never mind.”

“You can’t just do that.”

“Do what?”

“That. That thing where you start a thought about the two friends of ours we just saw fucking each other and then trail off without finishing.”

That makes Patrick laugh so hard his head hits the door. “That thing? Does that thing happen often?”

“Not so much anymore. But you’re doing it so, spill.” He nudges Patrick’s leg with his knee. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, uh, he and I used to date.”

"You and Bob Bryar?" Pete’s been trolling Patrick for years but there’s never been even a whisper of something like that. A spike of jealousy hits him hard in the chest, but not as hard as the hope that claws its way up his throat.

"Yeah. Ages ago. I just...you know, we've been friends so long that most of the time I forget the ex part.” He laughs again, awkward and strained. He rubs the back of his neck and his face turns pink. “Except, sometimes I remember because like you said. Wow."

“You’ve got good taste. What happened?”

“We just walked in on your stock boy screwing my ex. I thought we were pretty clear on what happened.”

“No, with your ex. He seems-” There’s another banging sound. Pete coughs and grasps for an adjective. All he can remember his the way he held up under Ryan’s grip. “Sturdy. What happened?”

“That’s personal. I don’t think I know you that well.”

“Come on,” Pete pushes even though he knows he shouldn’t fucking push. Because Patrick is right, he doesn’t know Pete that well. He doesn’t know him at all. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

“I thought you didn’t sleep with Ryan. He’s not your ex.”

“No, but I’ll tell you about my ex. Well. One of them. You can pick. Most interesting, most painful, funniest. It’s called sharing. That’s how people become friends.”

Patrick pushes the brim of his hat up as he turns to get a better look at Pete. “Considering your friends, I’m not sure that’s what I want.”

“I’ll go first. I’m not going anywhere until they get done anyway so, come on.” He gives Patrick’s leg another nudge with his knee. He likes doing that. It feels familiar and intimate and easy. Pete can’t remember the last time it felt this easy, actually. “Pick.”

The silence stretches out for what feels like a long time, but is really only a couple of seconds. Then Patrick sighs with a sort of indulgent surrender that means that Pete’s worked his way under his skin. “Okay, most intense I guess.”

Okay, that one wasn’t an easy experience but picking the right one is. It’s cake. “Jeanae. We were together off and on for, fuck, years. I was following Warped around one summer and she called me from some guy’s house to tell me she’d fucked him. Twice. And that it was an on-going thing. With all of that, it still took us another six months to break up. We tore each other to pieces first.”

“Jesus,” Patrick sighs. “It was nothing like that with Bob.”

“That’s not a bad thing, dude. My drama was drama. I was twenty-five and I fed on that shit.”

“Like a dung beetle.”

“A very productive dung beetle,” Pete agreed.

He’d thrived on the tumult of breaking up with her for months before he snapped. Only this time, instead of trying to kill himself with a bottle of pills, he’d thrown himself into his work – drafting a business plan, scrounging up loans, making Clandestine something more than Arma Angelus, or any of his other failed bands ever were.

Then he’d quit. He’d quit the job at the mayor’s office and he’d quit throwing his heart at girls and boys young enough to get him arrested. He’d run screaming from Chicago politics the way he ran from starting yet another fucked up relationship. He’d fallen so deep in love with his business and his work that after her, there hadn’t been room in his life for more than his love affair with music and the occasional semi-drunk hook-up at a show.

“It was the best thing that ever happened to me,” Pete says. “I pulled my shit together after her and now here I am.” He holds up his hands. “Now here I am, sitting next to Patrick Stump who is wearing my shirt.”

“Conning his life story out of him.”

Okay, that hurts. “This isn’t a con. This is fair trade.”

“We were on tour together like five years ago and we just sort of clicked. I started out as a drummer and he was on my wavelength. I think it started because we were both hiding from the crowd in the same room."

"Not very social, then?"

"I'm not great with large groups of people. Or being stared at. Or, you know, cameras. Bob and I are both on agreement when it comes to cameras. They're evil. The Native Americans are right – they'll steal your soul."

"Seriously? Evil?" It's like he's speaking a foreign language.

Pete loves cameras. When he did his first line of button down shirts, he and Ryan closed the store down for a day and took like ten gigs of photos. Pete called it producing internet marketing. Spencer had dropped by on his way home from work to remind Ryan that he had an eight am test and called it "you two idiots being blatant camera whores". At least he had until Pete manhandled him into one of the shirts. It had been blue, made Spencer's eyes pop, and Pete is fairly sure he has an army of girls who wanted him to be their boyfriend to thank for his online stock sold out when he posted it.

Hiding like a bad sitcom plot doesn’t click with the stage presence that Pete knows Patrick has. The guy who would rather hide in the basement of an auditorium with a stranger rather than watch the audience and the bands from the wings doesn't really mesh with the rock star he actually is. "You picked a hell of a job if you don't like cameras and crowds."

"It's not about cameras though. It's not about crowds either. It's about the music. I get to write and play music for a living. The cameras and crowds are secondary. They're the price you pay, you know?"

Back when Pete was in bands, it was almost as much for the attention as it was for the music. So he doesn't exactly. He doesn’t get a chance to say so though because the door he's leaning against opens sharply and he falls back onto a pair of large black sneakers half hidden by black jeans.

He gets an inverted look up at Bob's flushed and sweaty face before he pulls himself upright. The view isn't much better that way because he's face to face with Ryan Ross in afterglow, which is no less bitchy than regular Ryan Ross. It's just more unnerving.

"You fucking waited?" Ryan demands, looking just as flushed, but his hair looks better now. Messy works better with his big eyes than the pseudo-professor waves he had going earlier. "Seriously? What the hell are you, my dad?"

Pete would cross his arms and get indignant, only it's hard to do that half-sprawled on the floor. He settles for rolling his eyes instead. "You wish I was your dad."

"You're old enough," Ryan shoots back. It's lacking some of the venom, though. Pete figures a good fuck must do that for him.

"Bob, Mikey and the guys have been looking for you for awhile now." Patrick pulls out his cell phone to check the time. "Almost an hour. I'd say call them, but there's no reception down here so."

"What?" Bob looks stunned.

"The Academy Is is almost done with their set, dude," Patrick says. "I'd run. Remember how Frank reacted after Boise?"

Bob actually manages to go white while retaining a bit of post-fuck flush on his cheeks. The color combination looks weird with his blond beard.

From his angle Pete can't help but look up so he doesn't miss it as Bob grabs Ryan by his tie and pulls him into a fast kiss. "Wait for me stage right," Bob says before taking off down the hallway at a dead sprint. The three of them watch him go wide eyed.

"What happened in Boise?" Ryan asks finally, breaking the silence Bob left in his absence.

"Their lead singer got lost and was an hour late getting back. Frank went on a full scale prank war that ended in Gerard having to cut off and rebleach his hair. I think the thing with soaking all his clothes in the blue urinal stuff when they still had a month of tour left was worse, but that’s when their manager made them end it."

"See?" Ryan says, pointing an accusing finger at Pete. "Never complain again when Spencer cuts off your shower privileges because next to that? It's nothing."

"He controls your shower?" Patrick laughs.

"Yeah, only its not his shower. It's mine. Fearless leader's too cheap to spring for a real apartment-"

"I'm not cheap, I'm investing in my business."

"With real plumbing so. Stage right is..." Ryan points but he's already walking away. "That way?"

Pete trots after him and catches him by the back of the shirt. Ugh, its sweaty. From fucking Patrick's ex. Oh yeah. This night just got more and more perfect. "You're not escaping again."

"I am not your pet, Pete."

He grabs the back of Ryan's hair because its growing out and it is almost as good as a leash. It probably hurts more when he yanks. "You so are and I think you've heard enough of the call of the wild for one night, Buck." He pushes Ryan forward like he's five instead of twenty-five and Patrick falls into step behind them.

"Jack London?" Patrick whispers. "Really? That's kind of ninth grade of you."

"Hey. It's an awesome book. Buck was a badass and he found himself and his true place in the world by the end. It's spiritual."

Pete can feel his gaze even though he can't see it. "You're a dog guy," Patrick says. It's a definitely a judgment. He's just too busy focusing on getting Ryan to not slip away again

"Who isn't a dog guy?" It's a judgment of his own. He really, really needs Patrick not be an anti-dog person. At the very worst, they seem like they're starting to be friends and Pete can't be friends with dog-haters. Not even a Patrick Stump shaped one.

"I wasn't allowed a pet as a kid. My dad had an apartment and my mom worked all the time. I always wanted one though."

Pete turns to grin at Patrick. It's huge and dopey and probably makes him look like a tool, but he doesn't care. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Joe's more of a cat guy, but dogs." Pete turns in time to see Patrick shrug. "It just seems like they'd love you better."

He says it so simply that Pete knows. It hits him sort of like an elbow to the nose that he can really fall for this man. Not some deluded crush, and not that crazy erratic passion he used to mistake for love when he was younger.

No, he could fall real actual love with Patrick if he got the chance. He knows it would be the kind that blasts hot then settles into a slow burn that just lasts and lasts. Hell, maybe he's halfway there already.

"Look, Pete." Ryan's voice is riding the edge between reasonable and whining. He's got a very sensitive scalp. Spencer always goes for the hair first when he's pissed. "Let go of my hair so you guys can make out already. You know you want to."

"Do you know how to get to stage right?" Patrick asks. "The tunnel system is kind of big."

"He doesn't." Pete is glad they've both silently agreed to ignore the making out comment. Totally not appropriate and way too fast and also, he might just have to kill Ryan for saying it at all. He's not that kind of boy. Much. Anymore.

"I can take a guess. You go to the stage and go right. Can't be that complicated."

"You got lost on the stairs in your own apartment building." Pete gives Ryan's hair a little tug. He yelps and bats an arm backwards at Pete. It lands, but not with much impact.

"Once, all right, once, and I was really, really baked. I think Brendon laced it with something. That doesn't count."

"Sorry, guy, I think that counts."

"See. Patrick motherfucking Stump agrees with me. You're overruled."

Ryan lets out a put-upon sigh. "Fine but I want a bonus on my paycheck this month."

Yeah. Sure. Like he's going to waste precious investment capital on that when he doesn't have a bed frame in his room or, like, chairs. "I think you got your bonus. It's called the drummer who's probably going to blow you after the show. Don't push it."

Ryan doesn't argue with that. It's about as close to agreement as Pete is going get, and he doesn't bitch much as Patrick leads the way up to the main stage entrances. Pete thinks that Ryan's too excited to see Bob again to be too big of a twat.

Not that Pete can blame him. Patrick doesn't seem to be in any great rush to ditch Pete and while the feeling isn't exactly the same as it must be considering the live-action porn they walked in on, it's still pretty fucking good.

~*~*~

"You said the second album was your favorite." They're sitting in Patrick's dressing room. Pete's watching as Patrick absently tunes his guitar for his set. He's sitting on the floor even though there's a very nice couch in this room. "That's interesting."

The hole in his jeans is slowly expanding as Pete picks at it. He's on the couch because it's leather and he doesn't have one at home. If he wants sofa time, he usually has to go to the coffee shop down the street or share it with Brendon, which is like climbing into the kid's bed. He doesn’t do it that too often because Brendon has this sexy puppy thing going on that makes Pete feel like a creeper and not in a fun way. So he's taking advantage of a freak-free couch while he can.

Besides, he can see Patrick's fingers work better from here. He's so caught up in watching that it takes him a second to process what Patrick's said. "Why?"

"Most people like the third one best. That’s the one that got all the radio play in the beginning. I mean, the latest one is getting a lot of good attention right now, the fourth one did really well, and a lot of people really like the first one because of that whole possessive 'I liked that guy first' thing, but most people aren't too hung up on the second one."

"Most people are idiots."

"Maybe, maybe you're the idiot. It's all…" Patrick tunes the G string so that when he plucks it, it plays a little sharper than it did before, a little closer to in tune. "It's awkward."

"Yeah, but how old were you when you made that record? Sixteen, seventeen, maybe eighteen years old? That was almost ten years ago. You were a teenager. It sounds like a teenager." Pete shrugs and picks a white thread out of the blue and tugs. "That's authentic. Honest."

That makes Patrick laugh, though Pete doesn’t like the self-effacing edge to it. "Man, I wish you'd been there when the second one came out and no one wanted to buy it." He smiles a little and ducks his head. When he lifts it, Pete is hit with blue-green eyes that look right through him. "Honest?"

"Well, I mean, yeah. I remember when I listened to it the first time. I felt seventeen again. I'd forgotten and your album helped remind me. It, I don’t know. I think it helped to remember that." He watches the corner of Patrick's mouth quirk upwards. Since the honesty thing seems to mean a lot to him, Pete tries to keep with it. "Except for that one word in the chorus of Hope He is a Gentleman. It always felt off to me."

"You said it was your favorite."

"It is. It was just one word. Never mind it's stupid and I don’t even know what the fuck I'm talking about."

"You clearly do." Patrick tightens the E string. He plucks it twice but his eyes don't leave Pete's face. "You've been thinking about it for almost ten years."

"It's not ten years. It only came out eight years ago." Right that's believable denial. Pete wants to punch himself in the mouth.

"And you know that off the top of your head. Just tell me." His voice is quiet and level. It feels like it cuts right through Pete to the embarrassed fanboy Pete's been suppressing all night.

Right. Honesty. Pete takes a deep breath. "Okay, it's just- Word choice. I minored in English so, like, the chorus, particularly as the opening line, when you say _where is your man tonight_. I always thought you should've had it been where is your boy instead. I mean, you were a teenager. I mean, who were you talking to at seventeen years old – sixteen if you wrote it before you started recording - who were you talking to that they had a man?"

Patrick says nothing. He just makes a little noise in the back of his throat. Pete doesn’t know if it’s a good noise or a bad one but for some reason he cannot stop talking. It's like Brendon has possessed his body and is forcing him to babble through astral projection.  
  
"Plus, uh," Pete rubs the back of his neck because wow, its suddenly hot in here. He wants to take off its hoodie because yeah, its warm. "It's a word repeat without a rhythm variation? Man then gentleman, it is kind of awkward. That’s part of what I like about it but-" Patrick's staring and Pete swallows hard. He can feel the click in his eardrums. "You asked."

"How long have you been a fan?" Patrick asks. It makes Pete think of those scenes in Oz when the warden, who Pete could only ever remember as Winston from Ghostbusters, asks a guy on death row what he wants for his last meal.

Of course Pete doesn't blush. His skin doesn't really do that. But as hot as his skin is right now he must be bright red. "Since '02? A friend gave me your demo and I think I saw you play in Wilmette the next month."

The expression on Patrick's face looks like he's been slapped with a dead fish. Pete's only seen that happen in the movies – the dead fish slapping thing – but that's how Patrick looks with his eyes huge behind his glasses and his jaw hanging open. He opens and closes his few times, coughs then sputters, "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Uh no? I was kind of drunk that night so it’s mostly a blur, but your voice was amazing. I remember that. I wanted to talk to you after but I think your mom dragged you out the second your set ended." Pete laughs. "I'm pretty sure it was a school night."

"And you're still a fan?"

"Yeah." Pete tucks up his right leg and rests his chin on the hint of exposed knee peaking out of his jeans. "I kind of think you're a musical genius. Don't hold it against me."

"Heh, I'll try I guess?" His voice wavers a little even as he tries to smile.

Right. He is the world's biggest tool. He's like one of those inflatable hammers you can win at amusement parks. Pete sighs. "I'm sorry."

Finally Patrick sets the guitar aside. It feels like it's been forever that Patrick's been holding it between them like fragile shield. "For what?"

"For being that guy."

"Which guy?"

"The creepy guy who's been a fan for way too long and, um, maybe has a crush on his favorite musician. You know. That guy."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"You have a crush on me? Really?"

Pete covers his face with his hand. "Since it was technically a crime."

"You- Wow. Wow."

Before Pete could actually suffer a shame coronary, the door opens. "Patrick, let's go man. My Chem's up for encore in ten. We need you upstairs."

"Coming, Joe."

"Okay because since the whole Bob thing we're already like half an hour behind and Jerry's ready to shit a brick."

"I said I'm coming."

"All right, all right. Don't kill the messenger, dude," Joe huffs.

The door swings shut behind him and clicks. Then there's a long stretch of quiet where there's nothing in Pete's world but the press of his sweaty fingers against his face, the dark, and the coupled sounds of their breathing.

As is the pattern with this day, Patrick is the first to break. "I should go."

"Yeah."

"I have to go play."

"I know that."

"Pete." His name hangs in the air limp and heavy.

He drops his hand and looks up at Patrick. His skin is so pale under the brim of his trucker hat. His lips are perfect, curved at the bottom and sharp points at the corners and for some reason – realizing that he's never going to get a chance to kiss them _now_ is more painful than nearly ten years of knowing that exact same fact for certain. "I'm really sorry."

"Don't be sorry." He plants his one hand on the ground, grabs his guitar with the other and pushes himself up. For a second, Pete thinks he's going to leave on that note but he doesn’t.

"I am though. Because you're this really fucking awesome guy who likes dogs and is funny and knows the right way to hold a two year old and can tune a guitar without even looking and I've been objectifying you for years. Seriously, you and Ashlee Simpson – you're both total sex objects in my head. I have bought backup copies of Blender with both of you on the cover so that I'd have one where it wouldn’t matter if I couldn't read the articles eventually."

"Wow okay." He doesn't flinch exactly so much as flash a hint of the smacked with a dead fish face again. "I'm pretty sure that is way more information than I needed to have."

"I know. And I'm sorry."

"I don't – Pete, this sort of thing doesn’t come up for me very often." He holds out his hands palms up. "I don’t know how to deal with it. I mean, sex symbol isn't really what I'm famous for. I got like, number fifty-four on People's least attractive stars list. I came in after Abe Vigoda."

"The people at People are stupid blind assholes. You're so hot it's distracting."

Patrick stares at him, his wrist twisting back and forth so that his guitar rotated ninety degrees and then back again. It was hypnotic, like one of those little office supply store knickknacks with the magnets that swing forever. More importantly, it’s a safe place to train his eyes. Pete gets lost in the motion until Patrick says, "Pete, I have to go."

"I know. You have to go and I'm a creeper. It's cool. Seriously, don’t worry about it. It's just been kind of awesome to meet you." He tugs the sleeve of his hoodie down further and wishes it were longer. He could gesture with soft worn fabric instead of his fingers, which feel too big and like they're grabbing every time he points them in Patrick's direction. "It was awesome and not just because I've been in love with your music for what feels like forever. You're just – you're a really great guy, Patrick, the kind of person I'd want to be friends with no matter what."

It's sexy the way Patrick worries his full lower lip with his teeth. It's also sad because he can't or won't meet Pete's eyes and for a few hours there, they had felt like friends. "You should go. You have to go play. That’s why everyone's here."

"Are you going to stay and watch?"

Of course he is. Pete hasn’t missed a Patrick Stump concert he's been able to get to since 2005. He just nods and a hint of Patrick's smile returns. It's barely there, confined mostly to those sharp upturned corners, but Pete thinks he can see it.

"Good. Okay. We'll talk more after my set."

Pete nods again and then Patrick and his guitar are both gone. Pete sags for a moment, kicking himself mentally because he lacks the flexibility to do it physically. That went spectacularly bad. He should get like…an award or something for worst explanation of liking someone in the history of ever.

Then he gets off the couch and heads upstairs, because the scream of the My Chem encore just echoed down through the cinderblock and he needs to find Ryan before Bob drags him off to have more dirty tour sex. He finds him on stage right, grinning like a little kid in a pet shop having his hand licked by three puppies at once – which on Ryan Ross is a slightly disconcerting expression.

Especially when he doesn’t break it to look Pete over and shout, "You look like shit," directly into his ear over the sound of the crowd and Gerard Way's voice.

Pete doesn't respond verbally to that. He gives Ryan a little punch on the shoulder which gets the 'fuck you' across just as clearly. He feels tired and not in a good way – not the way he would if he'd been down on the floor moshing like he'd originally planned to spend tonight.

"You need to go call Spencer," he yells into Ryan's ear. "Tell him you're not coming back to the apartment so he doesn’t get pissed off at me." Thinking about how badly he needs to maintain access to hot water is a lot more pressing than Ryan's annoyed gaze. Ryan's gaze is always annoyed.

"It's like you're six and scared of your mom finding out you broke the window playing ball inside."

Yes, yes he is. It's a totally legitimate concern and fuck Ryan very much for not taking it seriously. "Don't make me make you."

"I already texted him. It's cool."

Ryan goes back to grinning at Bob as he hammers away at the drums. He's got a dreamy expression his face that Pete's never seen on him before and Pete's seen Ryan with dozens of people at parties and in the store and at his and Spencer's apartment. He didn’t look at any of them the way he's watching this guy he's known all of a few hours. Pete wishes he couldn’t relate.

He grabs Ryan's thin upper arm and pulls him down so that he can talk directly into his ear. He got tall somewhere along the line. "Be careful," he says, his lips brushing Ryan's ear as he speaks. He remembers a lot of things from when he was younger – how fast things fell apart with Bill first and second and third girlfriends when he was on tour before he found a fit with Christine. He's seen from the sidelines how that life tears people apart and wears them down.

Ryan's a good kid. He's a good man, really, because he's rapidly approaching twenty-five and that's not really a kid anymore. He doesn't know everything about Ryan, but he knows that before he followed Spencer to Chicago, his life was kind of shitty. He deserves for things to stay good and falling in love with a guy in a band that tours nine or ten months out of the year every year wouldn’t be conducive to that.

Pete feels Ryan jerk back, watches him blink down at him. He's not surprised when Ryan nods. He's kind of shocked when he leans down and says, "Yeah you, too."

Insightful Ryan always throws him off guard. This time it allows Ryan slip to free of Pete's grip easily. It leaves Pete standing on the side of the stage, watching alone.

He's leaned against a sound stage control box when Patrick and his band come up from stage left. It's kind of amazing to watch from this perspective. He's been front row center, caught in the middle of the crowd, and on a blanket at the back. This is new and he feels so close he's almost part of the show.

Patrick is, well, he's Patrick Stump. His voice can go from gravel rough to lube slick, thick like honey or easy and liquid as water. Like it always does, Patrick's voice works its way into Pete's body, through his joints, toes and fingertips as much as his ears.

Only tonight, he's watching Patrick play and sweat and sing so close that he could cross to him in a few steps. The difference between this and watching from behind the barricade or listening through speakers is like the difference between being in the shallow end of a wave pool and being hit by a tidal wave. The musical current threatens to knock Pete off his feet and sweep him away with the rest of the debris. Then Patrick launches into a song from the third album that makes Pete's heart stop and the undertow of Patrick pulls him down.

Most of the show doesn't register that clearly. It's more of a sensory experience for Pete, like being high. He's buffeted by sound so loud he can feel it on his skin as he's hypnotized by the way Patrick manipulates his guitar or keyboard. He's awkward and charming when he speaks to the crowd. His guitarist Joe and his drummer Andy, who Pete actually remembers from years ago in the scene, are the ones who keep the rock energy up. They've been with Patrick in every show Pete's seen and while they're always good, everyone is playing on another level tonight. Even their temporary bassist, a skinny guy Pete heard a tech call Matt, is on fire.

Two thirds of the way through the set, Patrick's shirt is soaked through. He pauses to grab a bottle of water and downs half of it in one go as the crowd screams at him. A tech trades one guitar out for another.

Patrick picks out a couple of notes then clears his throat into the mic. "Okay, so a lot of people have attached a lot of importance to this one but I just had this stupid crush when I was in high school. That’s what it was back then anyway. It's not what it was when I started and I think that’s the thing about music, about life in general. It changes as you go or you don't grow. So, uh, this one's for a new friend who made me want to grow a little."

There're a few discordant notes as Joe, Patrick and Matt silence their instruments. Then Patrick wraps his hand around the mic and half-sings half-says "Where is your boy tonight? I hope he is a gentleman. And maybe he won't find out, but I know you were the last good thing about this part of town."

Pete can't breathe as the musicians on stage launch back into playing. He can't breathe because he's clearly dead. He's dead and in heaven because Patrick would not just take his advice and use it on stage in front of thousands of screaming fans in this life. It's impossible.

Except Patrick gets to the chorus and there it is again, where is your boy instead of man. It sounds… right, fits the way Pete has always known this song could in his head and under his skin. On the second reprise, Patrick glances over at him and gives him a little smile as he sings. It turns something over in Pete's chest with a click like a key in a lock.

Time seems to speed up after that. The rest of the set seems to play in double time. It doesn't, of course. Andy has perfect timing. He always has. Pete remembers his last name is Hurley because he's from the Chicago scene too. They almost played in a band together once. Andy had always been exceptional and they'd been sort-of friends, but way too good for Pete.

Encore comes too fast and Patrick comes to stage right and smiles at him. He's got a huge smile up close. Not like Pete's smiles are big – threatening to grow to epic proportions and destroy Tokyo. His are more just huge in the way they make his face shine and Pete's chest ache.

"Hang out here," Patrick says directly into his ear. He gives Pete's hoodie-covered arm a bump with his shoulder that Pete is sure is intentional before joining the techs farther back from the stage. They have three songs left on the set list they haven’t played.

The songs left are the singles that everyone knows, even people who don't like most of Patrick's stuff. Pete sings along under his breath mostly because he can't help it, not even with Patrick looking over every few measures and catching him. They're too much a part of him not to.

Once the concert ends, Patrick seems to shrink a little, back down to human size instead of the larger than life god he was on stage. Human-sized Patrick-maybe slightly smaller than human sized if Pete's honest, because he really is just so short-comes up to Pete. It's noisy, so he doesn’t say anything. He taps Pete's elbow instead, motioning with his head for Pete to come with him.

Pete doesn't know where they're going, but he doesn’t care. It's hard to give crap about much of anything with the way Patrick is smiling at him. They come to a halt in one of the many cinderblock hallways beneath the floor of the arena.

There's a five second pause where Patrick just grins at him before he explodes with excitement. "It's better right? It is. All those fucking years and it never occurred to me to use boy, but it is." Patrick is practically vibrating with excitement. Pete can't do anything but stare. "It's so much better. It's sharper, makes everything else hit harder. It's so fucking simple and nobody else told me how to make it right." He stops finally and smiles at Pete. "Nobody 'til you."

The song. He's talking about the song. He's talking about Hope He is a Gentleman. He thinks that Pete made it better, _right_ , so Pete has to kiss him. It's not really even a choice. He just finds himself grabbing Patrick by the front of his shirt, the one he's been wearing for five days that Pete designed, and dragging him forward until their mouths crash together.

He has to, because Patrick Stump sang his words on stage and thought it completed a song that Pete's loved for almost ten years. Because he made Mario jokes and thought dogs would love a person better and was awkward now, just in a different way than his teenage musical confessions implied. He's all of it and more, and Pete wants to know it. He wants to lick it out of Patrick's mouth.

There is a pause, a moment of shock where Patrick freezes. It's enough time for Pete to worry, but then Patrick is kissing back. He's kissing back with an edge of desperation that makes Pete moan.

The sound is soft and gets lost in Patrick's mouth. It seems to flip a switch in Patrick, only instead of light, Patrick is moving. He grabs Pete's sides, bunching his hoodie in his fists. Pete trips a little over his own feet as Patrick uses that hold to push him six steps into the closest wall.

Impact makes Pete pull in a stunned gasp. It gives Patrick the chance he needs to thrust his tongue into Pete's mouth and oh, fuck, yes. He pushes forward with his body and his kiss at the same time. Pete could come like this. He wants to, in his pants like he's making out under the bleachers at school.

However, this is not school and he is not Ryan Ross slutting it up with a hot drummer. Even if Patrick is hot and can play drums. He pulls back but not far. He can't go that far without his head hitting cinderblock.

"We should, uh, we should maybe stop?" he says. Of course he says this while panting, with his hands still holding Patrick's face. Pete is sure that makes his attempts at reason a lot less impressive.

"Yeah," Patrick agrees but he's still holding Pete captive by the fabric of his hoodie. "Yeah we- yeah. We should probably go somewhere else."

"Don't you guys have to roll out in like an hour?"

Patrick nods then shakes his head. "We do, but the next show is in Milwaukee. I was going to go to my mom's and grab a shower and sleep." It's less than 2 hours away. Patrick wouldn't even have to get up that early to meet up with them before sound check.

Pete would do the same thing if he were in Patrick position. Mom time and a still bed trumps making out with a guy he barely knows. Pete totally understands. He's only a little disappointed. Okay a lot disappointed, but he gets it. "Oh, okay."

"Yeah, but, uh, we could go back to your place, maybe?"

His place. His place was a train ride and two line changes away with a single mattress and his milk-crate night stand and left-on-the-curb-for-the-trash-guy lamp. Pete could think of a dozen great things to do to Patrick in his bed, most of them involving sweat and spit and some of the lube he's got stashed behind the boxes of Clan sweaters from 2 years ago that he mixes into the sales rack every month or so.

"You should go to your mom's. I bet she wants to see you." Pete says because he just can't imagine doing them there, not yet. Patrick deserves better. Also, it's just too intimate too soon, even for him.

The thing is that his store is probably a lot like Pete imagines Patrick's music to be. It's private in a lot of ways, something he managed to do almost wholly on his own. For the last few years when he's hooked up, he's always gone to his partner's place. It's like the space is sacred or something. Even though he wants this, wants Patrick there, he just doesn't want him in that space until he knows there's something stable there, that he'll be part of Pete's future like the store.

So, no. Pete doesn't want to go back to his place with Patrick. Not yet. Hell, maybe it won't happen ever if the way Patrick is letting go of his hips is any indication.

"Oh. Okay, yeah, she is." Patrick shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his pants and ducks his head. His hat makes it so Pete can't see his eyes, not even this close. "She's supposed to be waiting for me out back. So, I guess I should go if you don't want-"

"I didn't say that." Pete says. He grabs for Patrick and catches his arm. His skin is so fucking soft, like he's never spent a second in the sun in his entire life. "I didn't say that. I just- I don't think now is good, you know? Later though. Later'd be pretty awesome. If you want."

He punctuates the point by pushing up Patrick's hat with his other hand. He wants to see his eyes. They've been so expressive so far tonight and maybe if Pete can see them, a little of the panic that he's fucked this up beyond saving will go away.

Patrick bats his hand away but not before Pete gets the brim of his trucker hat up. "The hat doesn't come off," Patrick declares but the smile is back in his blue-green eyes.

"Is that a hard and fast rule? Like even when you go to sleep or during sex?"

Patrick shrugs and takes hold of Pete again. This time though, he fits his hands to Pete's hips. "Depends on the sex. It'd have to be pretty awesome."

He licks his lips then smiles for real and oh. Oh, fuck. Pete is in so much goddamn trouble. "Yeah? You know, that sounds like a challenge to me."

"Might be," Patrick agrees. "But another time, because if we're not going to do this then I guess my mom is still waiting, like I'm freaking sixteen."

He gives a rueful smile. Pete wants to kiss it, but he doesn't want it to go away. Instead he settles for pressing his lips to one corner briefly before pulling back. "I like that. Plus, everyone I've ever dated says I'm emotionally sixteen, so we're about the same age."

"Well then how about you walk me out," Patrick says. He goes up on his toes a little and gives Pete a playful kiss on the cheek. "I'll let you carry my books and everything."

"Oh wow. That's almost like going steady."

"Almost," Patrick repeats, moving down Pete's face to take his mouth again. He wouldn’t have expected that he'd be the kissed rather than the kisser in this scenario. It's probably the short thing. Or more likely it's the fact that the way Patrick pushes a thigh between his legs as he kisses Pete deliciously contradicts all the fantasies that Pete's had over the years that involved pushing Patrick to his knees or onto his back. The reality is even sexier.

Pete whimpers and drops his hand from the brim of Patrick's hat to the back of his neck. Patrick kisses him like if he can just focus hard enough and dig in deep enough, he'll find all the answers to who Pete is. He won't, but Pete knows Patrick will find something, probably already has. Patrick knows how to search.

They kiss until Pete's neck aches from bending down to meet Patrick. They kiss until they are both panting and Pete's lips tingle. When they break apart again, Pete feels like his head is going to explode.

Patrick reaches for his pocket and Pete thinks _wait_ , and _yes_ and _we didn’t even make it to a closet or a bathroom stall_. Only instead of groping for Pete's cock through his jeans, he pulls out one of the dozens of Sharpies that find their way into his pockets. He pulls the cap off with his teeth and leans back a little. "I need you to give me your number," Patrick says around the cap.

That makes no sense. Pete can practically feel how blown his pupils are as he blinks at Patrick. "What?"

Patrick pushes the back end of the Sharpie onto the cap so that he can speak clearly. "Your phone number. I left my phone with the tour manager. You have to give it to me before I go." He licks his lips. Pete can't remember his cell number until he's done. "I have to go now, Pete. I don’t know how long we've been and she's probably waiting."

Everyone is probably waiting, including Patrick's tour manager who is in possession of his phone. Pete mumbles out his number and Patrick writes it down on the inside of his arm. Then he reaches out, unzips Pete's hoodie and writes his name and number down on the bright blue fabric of his shirt between the robot and his escaping heart.

"You can call it an autograph," Patrick says. He hands Pete back the sharpie. "Or you could call me."

He doesn’t know what to do with the pen now he has it back. Getting at his pockets requires pawing at Patrick and if he does that he won't be able to stop. Of course, he can't say that, so he just worries it between his fingers and goes for a teasing tone when he says, "I kissed first. You call me."

"I will." There's nothing joking about that answer. Patrick just steps back from Pete and holds out his hand. Lacing their fingers together is so fucking high school, but Pete doesn't care. It feels good. It feels like the starting line of a race he didn’t know he was training for.

"I'll answer," Pete promises. "And I'll walk you out." He holds out his hand with the kind of gentlemanly courtesy that he never extended to anyone back in high school when it would've been appropriate.

Patrick takes his hand and lets Pete lace their fingers together. It makes him smiles again. Pete could get used to Patrick's smile. He doesn't do it that often in publicity stills, and it's gorgeous. He enjoys sneaking glances at it as they walk out of the tunnels out the exit to the back parking lot.

It's cold outside. There're only a couple buses left, when there was practically a caravan when Pete arrived. The parking lot has emptied out into a traffic jam on the surrounding streets so there aren’t many cars to cut down on the force of the wind as it sweeps over the empty asphalt. Pete's hoodie isn't really sufficient, and Patrick doesn’t have a jacket at all.

Patrick's teeth click together a little when he points at a blue midsized sedan and says, "That's her car. She was in the audience, but she left a little early." He grins and shrugs.

Pete wants to pull his hoodie off and give it to Patrick to make him look less like a popsicle in training. He only doesn't because Patrick is still talking. Pete doesn't want to cut him off to explain why he'd need to let go of his hand.

"She doesn't like crowds, either. So, uh," he gives Pete's fingers a squeeze. "I should go get my phone from Jerry and go."

Only he doesn't let go. They both stand together, holding hands and half frozen. Pete says, "I had a really great time tonight," because this really is like high school. Pete's just one more Lost Boy stuck a few feet from adulthood forever. That's okay though, because Patrick seems to be here too.

Patrick nods and pulls him forward for one more kiss, quick and closed-mouth since that is his mother's car sitting right there. Even the light contact makes Pete's lips tingle. The tingle becomes an ache when Patrick lets go and runs across the lot to his bus.

Pete waits and watches as Patrick emerges a minute later wearing a jacket and carrying a duffle bag. Patrick hauls open the passenger side door of his mother's car then stops. He looks up and over at Pete and waves. He's too far away for Pete to see his expression clearly but Pete's pretty sure it's another of those bright smiles. He waves back until Patrick climbs in and shuts the car door.

He doesn't bother going back into the United Center once Patrick's gone. Ryan's no doubt gone off with Bob Bryar to have incongruously hot sex. Bill texted him during the show to say he was going to Christine's mother's with the baby so there's nothing left for Pete in the stadium. Instead he catches the bus back home, the music of the evening echoing in his head.

The quiet in the store is a little unsettling after all the noise and chaos. Pete can hear his keys jingling in his pockets after he closes and locks the behind him. He hits play on the stereo just to have something other than the quiet, and is almost surprised when Patrick's voice comes out. Hope He is a Gentleman echoes through the empty space.

It's unexpected and the chorus sounds wrong now. Wrong, but soothing at the same time. It makes Pete's skin prickle, but he doesn't bother to change it as he walks back to his inventory-turned-bedroom.

He doesn't bother to flip on the light. The only clothes he takes off are his shoes before dropping onto his bed. He feels tired, all the way through to his bones, but it's good. Post-show exhaustion. Post-kissing fatigue. Pete could do to be this kind of tired more often.

Maybe Patrick won't actually call him, but Pete thinks that's okay. Tonight's been a reminder that it was possible for weariness to come from something other than his work. He'd forgotten there for awhile.

He remembers why he got started better now. He'd wanted to have time for his life, for doing things he wanted to do like going to shows and designing clothes and hanging out with his friends. So maybe, next quarter, he'd look at investing in an apartment. Something with a full bath and a kitchen. He doesn't cook or anything, but Spencer does.

He's trying to remember if his dad knows anyone in real estate when his phone vibrates in his pocket. It buzzes again and then goes silent.

_this isn't a phone call but i figure its close enough_ the first text read. Pete clicked to the newest one which said _also the walls at moms r really thin lol_.

Pete grins at the blue light for the longest time before he gets his fingers to work. _it totally counts_ he types. He hits send before he can let his higher reasoning stop him. Feeling brave and loose, he follows this with _speakin of walls - i was just thinkin bout gettin a real apt_.

His phone rings three seconds later. It's a local number not in his contact list. Pete picks up on the first ring.

"You should do it," Patrick says.

"Get an apartment?"

"Yeah. You should do it. When the tour ends, I can help you look. If you want."

Pete laughs because this is surreal. His life doesn’t involve talking to Patrick Stump in bed while his singing voice filters in from his sound system. At least it wasn't his life before today. Yesterday clearly sucked by comparison. "That'd be great. Thanks."

"Cool. I need to look anyway. I was talking to my mom and she's been wanting me to come home for awhile after this one. She brings it up like every time we talk. I keep telling her I'm supposed to start working on the next album but I've been thinking about it, and there are recording studios in Chicago."

Pete's mouth goes dry. "There are."

"Yeah. Anyway, it's an idea."

"It's a fucking genius idea. Brilliant."

"Yeah?" Pete can practically hear Patrick smiling through the phone.

It sends a rush of excitement through his nervous system because this could work. This could be something _real_. He can't remember the last time he even wanted something like this, let alone thought he could reach it. "Yeah. We should hang when you're in town. Go out."

"Like on a date?"

There's an out there. One last chance for Pete to say no. He doesn't take it. Pete's always been the kind of guy who chases after what he wants. "Yeah. And if you're real nice, I might let you wear my letterman jacket."

Patrick laughs at him. "You do not have a letterman jacket."

"I totally do. Varsity soccer team. I'd have to dig it out of my parent's attic, but I've got one."

"You weren’t kidding about the hidden depths thing, were you, Pete?"

"Nope. So, you go out with me and I'll pull out the high school relic. You can bring the hat from your band uniform."

"They don’t let you keep the hat." Patrick sighs. "I asked."

Of course he did. "That's amazing."

"That was me being a 9th grade dweeb." Patrick laughs. "And that's all you're getting on that now because I've got to crash, but yeah. It's a date."

"I'll call you later," Pete says because he wants to say all sorts of sappy, romantic things you're not supposed to say the first day you meet someone. _I think I could fall in love with you_ is not acceptable, but _I'll call you_ and all the promises it carries definitely is.

"Good," Patrick says. His tone is the closest to his singing voice Pete's ever heard it when speaking. It's delicious. "I'll answer. Night, Pete."

He hangs up and Pete drops his hand onto his chest, still clutching his phone. His iPod has switched albums somewhere during the phone call, and now Patrick is singing about airplanes and a life unlived.

The song is beautiful. It's one of Pete's favorites, in fact. It usually makes him think about college and being full of expectations. Tonight, it makes him think of long kisses and fluorescent-light filled tunnels. The joking, teasing Patrick he just spoke to is a hundred times better than the voice in his speakers, a thousand even, and Pete is going to get to know him.

Pete hums along a little before he lifts the phone again. He rereads the texts a few times before he saves Patrick's number to his contacts. Then he closes his eyes and lets himself drift off, smiling in the dark.


End file.
